Juno Henry and I go way back. She was the one who inspired me to write, and not only that. She inspired me to spread my wings and become the elegant slut I am today. It appears that her ex-lover, far from inspiring her to write as once he did, has become abusive and puerile. I am reposting her tribute to him, and her final goodbye, here on Elegant Smut. Because sometimes, you need more than one voice to silence the bullshit.

Mr Henry has sadly suffered a hissy fit of epic proportions, which has led to his ultimate demise.

Once he was a studly and virile lover. Sadly, over the years his prowess waned considerably, and he has been reduced to whining and wailing dramatically in lieu of any real sexual interaction. His famously short cock, albeit rich in girth, lusts vainly after strapping young Korean lads, who wouldn’t touch the crusty old gaijin with a barge pole, and so much more so not their own.

His fetish for being cuckolded was what brought about his final downfall. Unable to accept that the woman who he repeatedly claimed to love over the course of 12 years, to whom he said over and over “It’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you.” was free of him, and no longer wanted anything to do with him, he self-imploded.

The final straw came when she told him of her life and her stable of studly, sexy, virile lovers who have never even looked at a little blue pill, and her ongoing divorce. To her, as to most normal humans, this was called “news”, or “what’s going on in my life, man who I haven’t seen since 2006”. To him, this was an invitation to self-harm, throw a temper tantrum, and finally, completely, and utterly, lose his shit.

Upon the presentation via Facebook and email, of certain lewd and inappropriate suggestions on his part, and their subsequent rejection in their entirety, Mr Henry lost the plot. Expunging himself of much hoarded bile and ill-feeling, he wrote a pissy little note to this author, speaking of how he had also expunged himself of her and anything to do with her — and how this had delighted him.

And then he ceased to be.

He was, as the Pythons would have it, an ex-Parrot. Or similar. Although as metaphors go, parrot is quite appropriate for Mr Henry. When he spoke, whether on paper or out loud, much squawking did ensue. As he got older, so his writing got grayer, like the hair on his arms, back and shoulders. His notions became more staid and repetitive. His syntax grew stodgy and stale. His charm waned considerably, and his bright spark all but vanished. His delightful eloquence gave way to turgid loquacity, and his originality transmogrified into plagiarism and dullness.

In short, what was once love gave way to vitriol and ill-wishes. Misbehavior attractive in a rambunctious, tousle-headed child became loathsome and vile in an overgrown, immature malcontent. Was he always this way? Not according to my perception, certainly not then. But now — no question.

So goodbye, stranger who was once my adored love. Goodbye, farewell, good riddance, don’t let the swing door hit you on your wrinkling, saggy ass as you flounce away.

I did so semi-intentionally — it’s all a part of the growing-up process (one does tend to wonder when said process will end, since I am already in my forties) to be able to accurately ascertain that someone is just plain bad for you.

I’ve never been one to burn bridges. To whit, my entire range of years in puberty were spent trying desperately to fit in with a crowd, with the vast majority of whom I had little to nothing in common. The more I was rejected, the more I pushed for acceptance. I freely admit that this is likely a tale with which many can identify — the years of puberty being the hormone-strewn classic nightmare that they are for so many. I did have some good friends in the crowd, but precious few, and I am in touch today with only a smattering of them.

But I’m “FB friends” with many of the original crowd. Why? Dunno. They friended me, mostly, likely to swell their friend lists. These are mostly those who didn’t dislike me, but with whom i was never particularly close, a fact borne out by the photos i see of old gang reunions to which I am never invited.

I don’t need them on my list to prove I had friends in the past — god knows, once i grew up and accepted that my lifestyle would be very different from these people and I therefore should waste no more time in futile pursuit of their grudging and patronizing acceptance, I began to blossom and thrive. I accepted their friendship s because in a way, I felt affectionately towards them. My own judgment, or lack thereof, aside, it was nice to say hi, and see how they are and where and what and all that fun stuff. I’m very happy with my life, therefore looking back nostalgically is largely a fun pastime.

The two people of whom I initially spoke were nothing to do with my former years as a freshfaced and eager youthful idealist.

One is a former Dom. The other is a former love of my life.

The Dom is an oddity in and of himself. He claims to be in recovery from a particularly unpleasant behavioral disorder, and for this reason is always truthful and very open about his behaviour and limitations as a result of the affliction. I told the Big Bad Cat about him from the beginning. I knew the Dom way before the BBC and I met and fell in love. The Dom pursued me for a year before we finally met in the flesh, we had a number of sessions, and in between them he made it very clear that I was expected to be his 24*7, and obey his whims regardless of non-proximity. This was OK, or at least, it was OK then, because I was just beginning to experience BDSM, and believed that “this was the one twue way to be a sub”.

One twue way my sizeable ass.

The Dom and I broke up when i realized that I was not happy with the arrangement. While I was doing everything that he requested of me, he was withholding communication from me, and leaving me feeling isolated and abandoned. When I broached this subject, he told me that he was no longer happy with our arrangement for various reasons not connected to me. We ended ostensibly friends, although over the following year, as I learned more and more about the lifestyle, I realized how things had been wrongly handled (to put it mildly) from the beginning. Over time, I communicated to him how I felt, and eventually we worked things out and became, for want of a better term, friends.

After a while, the subject came up of sexual arousal — specifically, ours — redux. It had never ceased to exist, we’d always been very sexually attracted to one another. However, in the course of trying to make it work, appointment after appointment ended up being cancelled. Basically, life got in the way — and he took this as a personal insult. And with his reaction of petulant, pram-toy-expulsion tantrum, so expired my feelings for him.

The former love of my life was the one who made the choice to depart from my life — but things had gotten to the stage where I couldn’t continue to be in his life without him understanding how difficult he made it to be around him.

He’d suffered a personal tragedy that we should none of us ever know about — the tragic loss of a child. It had profoundly depressed him, although it didn’t change who he was all that significantly. He was always a self-destructive, conflicted and manipulative man with wild mood swings and an innate sense of “pity me”. It took me a long time to realise how he was playing me, years and years in fact — but eventually, the penny dropped. I wrote to him, when I realised that I had to do something, and I asked him to face up to what he was doing to me. It was a long, carefully thought-out and constructed letter, that set out facts: what I could no longer handle in terms of his behaviour towards me, and how he made me feel. We are all of us responsible for 100% of our 50% of the equation, and I hoped he’d understand that.

He didn’t. He did not reply, and has dropped me from his mental list of friends — evidenced by his actions on various social networking sites.

And I’m OK with that. It’s such a relief to close a door that opens onto a yawning chasm of self-doubt and potential hurt. And unusually — since I am not a bridge-burner by nature — I feel stronger and happier.

Yes, it’s difficult to lose people in life, but it’s even more difficult to know when they need to remain lost. I cherish the people I keep in my life, even more so when I acknowledge that I keep them there intentionally. Some people will never be lost to me, and I will always be here for them. These two — they’re history.

I find that I am never able to entirely lose myself in a moment. To the extent of about 90-95% percent, my mind is floating in the air, moored down only by a firm and reassuring arm. But that rogue 5-10% of my brain is racing, creating a potential future piece of writing in my head.

[One could assume that any erotic experience I had was merely fodder for my writing portfolio. Well, you know what they say about assuming. This is not the case, although a lawyer could likely argue the fuck out of such a presumption.]

My erotic experiences, once a veritable festival of carnal experimentation, are now carefully selected. For me, it’s about the meeting of minds. A chemistry rare, delicate and intricate, that, once established, promises to strew the path ahead with surprises and perspicacity. But there is no predictive map or legend for this path. It’s all pretty much a crapshoot.

******************

I stood, facing the window, head pulled back by my hair, and a comforting, warm arm secured around my upper torso, as if anchoring me to the ground. Tiny, almost imperceptible butterfly kisses were planted all over me, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt myself all but take flight.

Understand something very significant. A gentle touch is not what usually turns my knees to butter. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the feeling of tiny butterfly kisses is something I don’t even usually notice. And yet there I was, headed for the ceiling head first, as if I were filled with helium. (Ethereally speaking, of course.)

In my head, while 95% of the little man in my head was committed to the mental floatage, 5% of him was fiercely writing notes on “I never fully understood the meaning of the word “sensuous” before”. It’s true. Today I learned the real meaning of the word.

The invited touch of another’s hand on your skin is usually a good feeling. I speak of something that far transcends this. The sensuous feeling of his lips on my skin transported me to some far-off plain — and the only way I can explain it is that it was chemistry: the who (him) far more than the what (tiny, gentle butterfly kisses, cloaking me in gossamer as I flew).

His hand on my shoulder made me shiver. His arm around me suffused me with a delight I’d not felt in a while. And through all this — the kissing continued. And higher and further I flew, the feeling continuing to soar within me, the slightest touch sending ripples of ecstasy through my nervous system.

Was this how, or why, he managed to elicit ejaculatory orgasms from me almost non-stop? My still-wobbly knees are testimony to how thoroughly I irrigated the surface beneath me time and time again.

Was this why, as I sat enfolded into a tetrahedral bear hug, his body still entwined around mine, panting for breath and coming back down to earth, that I felt so comfortable and safe? Was it why I could have stayed there until now?

Was this how he felt too? Was my touch — be it from my hand or from my lips — sensuous to him in an equable manner? I so delighted in hearing his moans of pleasure; it enhanced my own pleasure tenfold, so I did my best to elicit as many as I could.

Was this why, each time I looked into his eyes, he was always looking into mine? Whenever I looked away, I felt him watching me, waiting patiently until I met his gaze once more– and each time I looked back, he smiled softly and I instantly understood what his smile was saying.

It would certainly seem that way.

There is sensuality, and there is that which is sensuous. I’ve now had the difference between the two proven to me without a doubt.

Thank you for making me feel so relaxed and welcome. Thank you for liking so many of the same things that I do, and concurring on so many others. Thank you for the tea with milk, and for then rendering said tea irelevant as my mouth was busy elsewhere.

Thank you for stroking my skin, and playing with my hair. Thank you for being so much fun to be with. Thank you for being a wonderful kisser. I could kiss you for hours, days even. I might end up looking something like Mick Jagger, but it’d be worth it.

Thank you for taking me from zero to tsunami in under 10 seconds — a feat hitherto only ever achieved (speedwise) by my glass friend. Thank you for taking me from behind; it’s my favourite position (see above “liking the same things as I do”).

Thank you for hugging me and holding me close. Thank you for making me laugh, and then laughing at my attempts at humour. Thank you for being so damn sexy. Thank you for making me feel so natural and happy.

Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for getting hard for me. Thank you for telling me to suck your balls — I’d have sucked them anyway, but I really enjoy being given, and following, (certain) orders in the bedroom (from specific people).

Thank you for the one for the road. It did indeed last the whole way home, the rest of the day, all of last night and is still going — not so much in terms of orgasmic buzz but in terms of glowing from the inside out. Were I to walk past a Geiger counter, I’d be surprised if it didn’t light up and dance all over the surface on which it stood.

Thank you for everything — and in particular, for thanking me. I can’t think of a higher compliment. As you said to me, it was wonderful having you, and I couldn’t agree more.

When warm embrace
Becomes tight caress
Imprinted, skin on skin
Essential proximity
My face buried in you
As if you were oxygen
The need to clasp
To hold on tight
That abject hunger
Insatiable need
To inhale you
Drink
My fill
Devour
You.

Suzanne Portnoy recently acquired a Kindle and rather fell in love with the format. She’s asked a few of her favorite sex bloggers to contribute to a new erotic magazine she edits, available on only by subscription on Kindle. I’m among the contributors, who include some really fine smutmongers. Here are the details:

SexBlogyssey is a Kindle-only compilation of the best erotic blogging, bringing together smart, smutty writing from both sides of the Atlantic. Our contributors write about real experiences and their real lives, with a little fantasy/fiction thrown into the mix. We regularly publish new material, drawing on both new writing and the archives of our contributing bloggers.

SexBlogyssey was created by Suzanne Portnoy, author of a popular but now-retired blog describing her double life as a middle-aged single mother and entertainment publicist with a lively swinging lifestyle on the side. Other contributors include Jefferson, Bad Influence Girl, Joanne Cake, Todger Talk, Kitty Stryker, Mon Mouth, Elegant Slut, among others.